


Pack Animals: The Morning After

by alisvolatpropiis



Series: Deleted Scenes [3]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-06
Updated: 2014-06-06
Packaged: 2018-02-03 15:54:24
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,843
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1750217
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alisvolatpropiis/pseuds/alisvolatpropiis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Since the whole werewolves-are-real-and-totally-a-thing-you-have-to-deal-with-now situation began, Stiles has been anticipating a lot of once-impossible scenarios coming to true; cooking breakfast in his underwear with Derek Hale is most certainly not one of them.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Pack Animals: The Morning After

**Author's Note:**

> A continuation of/coda to [Pack Animals]().
> 
> Part 3 was going to be from Derek's POV, but I couldn't get the image of Derek eating cereal in his underwear out of my head (we've all been there, am I right?), so...here's some more cuddly fluff. :)
> 
> Part 4 will switch to Der-bear's POV! 
> 
> Thanks for reading, lovelies. You're all beautiful and kind. <3

Stiles wakes to an empty bed, which isn’t unusual. The quick pang of disappointment that flashes up when he realizes it, however, certainly is. It makes sense that Derek would disappear as soon as he felt well enough, saving both of them from what was surely going to be an incredibly awkward morning-after, even if all they had done was cuddle.

Almost naked, skin-pressed-to-skin cuddling, but whatever. The whole situation was like, medically necessary, and therefore not at all sexy.

So what if Stiles woke up a few times in the night to make sure Derek was okay, taking advantage of his slumber to watch him openly, exhilarated by the freedom of being able to gape at his hard-edged beauty without having to pretend like he wasn’t burning up from the inside out.

And so what if, more than once, he had to stop himself from reaching out and touching Derek’s face, scowl softened in sleep the way it was, making him look kind, sweet even.

And so what if, one time when Stiles awoke, it was because Derek had grabbed his hand from where it lay cautiously against his abdomen and interlocked his fingers with Stiles’ and sighed loudly, still asleep.

Total non-sexy cuddling.

It’s still mostly dark out, just the smallest hint of light starting to fill the morning sky. Derek’s pack-skin-to-pack-skin healing plan (or was it Stiles’ plan?) must have worked incredibly well if Derek felt well enough to leave already. Stiles chooses to think that rather the other, more likely reason for Derek’s disappearance: that he was horrified to have awoken nearly naked next to an also nearly naked Stiles and bailed, wolfsbane in his blood and hunters be damned.

Stiles lets out his own loud sigh and reaches his hand across the mattress to trace the empty space left by Derek, trying not to think about that fact that he’s thinking of his bed as a space Derek has left empty rather than a space Derek was temporarily occupying. The mattress is still holding his shape, the sheets still warm. Before he can think his way out of it, he shoves over on the bed, curling his body in an approximation of the way Derek had been lying, burying his face in the pillow, trying to memorize his scent, marred as it is by wolfsbane, weak as his human senses are. If he were a werewolf, what would Derek smell like to him? He wonders if he could ask Scott without making him suspicious.

Stiles wants to know what he smells like to Derek, too.

He’s not sure what exactly is happening between them – and yes, he decides emphatically, twice rubbing against each other in lusty anger and then cuddling in their underwear counts as _something_. But he knows that anxious twist in his gut all too well. It’s a feeling only one other person has sparked in him, a feeling he thought he was almost numb to by now after years of watching Lydia see right through him.

For some reason the rejection feels sharper, deeper, more like a twisting knife to the heart when it’s from Derek.

It’s just after five am but he gets up anyways, not wanting to stay in his bed that still smells like Derek. That way lies wallowing, and Stiles refuses to wallow over Derek Hale, the sour-faced wereasshole.

Not bothering to put any clothes on over his boxers, he shuffles down the stairs, rubbing his hands over the soft bristles of his buzzed hair, hoping his dad bought more coffee beans like he was supposed to, decidedly not thinking about Derek, which means he’s really thinking about Derek.

So he really shouldn’t yelp and jump back the way he when he sees Derek in his kitchen leaning against the counter, but he does, because _Derek is in his kitchen leaning against the counter_.

Derek is in his kitchen, leaning against the counter, still only wearing his boxer briefs, eating Cap'n Crunch out of a serving bowl with a grapefruit spoon.

“Dude, you scared the hell out of me!” Stiles yells, hoping that Derek isn’t noticing the way his heart is racing with excitement that he’s still here, or the the fact that it takes Stiles a few seconds to pull his eyes away from the coarse dark hair that dusts Derek’s brawny thighs. He looks better – still tired and pale, but his eyes are brighter and the dark circles underneath them are less pronounced. The bullet hole has healed completely, but his forearm is still webbed with faded, purple-black veins. 

Derek just keeps eating, shrugging those stupid shoulders and licking pink milk from those stupid lips. “I’m hungry.”

“I guess. A serving bowl of Cap'n Crunch? That’s Scott-level shenanigans right there.”

Derek glares at him from under his lashes, shoveling a mountain of crunch berries into his mouth. “It was the first bowl I found.”

“Uh huh. And the grapefruit spoon? Did you not grow up with silverware? Were you raised by _actual_ wolves?” Stiles laughs, proud of himself, giving in to the practiced, false bravado he plays so well, hoping to god he’s not turning bright red as Derek’s eyes fall casually across his nearly-naked body.

“It was the only one in the silverware drawer,” he huffs, defensive.

“Did you look in the dishwasher, big guy? A veritable buffet of non-serrated spoons in there, I bet.”

“I was trying to be quiet. I didn’t want to wake you up.”

“Oh.” Well, shit. Who knew Derek was a considerate houseguest?                                         

Stiles turns his back to him, hand rubbing the back of his neck, feeling Derek’s eyes on him as he opens the fridge. He grabs a carton of eggs from the top shelf and bends down to the vegetable crisper where he hides the pepper bacon he only lets his dad have once a week, if he’s been good. He closes the fridge door with his foot as the turns back to Derek, brandishing the bacon and eggs. “How about a real breakfast?” 

**~*~**

Since the whole werewolves-are-real-and-totally-a-thing-you-have-to-deal-with-now situation began, Stiles has been anticipating a lot of once-impossible scenarios coming to true; cooking breakfast in his underwear with Derek Hale is most certainly not one of them. 

Watching almost-naked Derek eat a dozen scrambled eggs with nearly the same ferocity he had in his eyes when he was forcing Stiles to cut off his arm is both alarming and entertaining. And, he realizes with a small grunt of surprise, educational.

“What,” Derek grunts back, shoving an entire piece of bacon in his mouth.

“I think I just figured something out. You might not be a total psycho.”

Derek’s eyes flash blue, but he smiles. An honest to god _smile_ from Derek freaking Hale. _Stiles_ did that. “Um,” he mumbles, a little thrown at just how thrown he is at the sight of Derek’s smile. “I was just realizing that maybe you don’t actually want to kill everyone everywhere all the time. It’s just your face. You have resting murder face.”

“Resting murder face?” Plate clean – Stiles wants to say something _so badly_ about dogs and licking plates, but he reins it in – Derek leans back in his chair and crosses his stupid arms, stupid eyebrows raised.

“Yeah, you know. With the intense brows and…your…angry eyes and your grumpy cat mouth. It’s just the way you look, not like, your personality. Maybe. You did threaten to kill me only about twelve hours ago, so I may be making some premature conclusions.”

“Stiles.”

“Yeah, yeah, I know. I talk too much.” 

“Thank you.”

“What?”

Derek rolls his stupid eyes. “I was going to say thank you. You're helping me, even though I don’t deserve to be helped. Thank you."

From anyone else, it would seem like self-pity, a blatant plea for reassurance, but Derek says it with such sincere resolution, like he really, truly, believes that he's not worthy of help, not worthy of having his life saved. It stabs into Stiles’ heart a bit, makes him want to hug Derek. “Dude, what do you mean you don’t deserve it," he says instead. "Everyone deserves help. Well, except for maybe Jackson, and definitely not the alpha, oh, and probably not whoever shot you? Because that wasn’t cool. But you, Derek, you deserve help.”

Derek just stares at him, giant arms still crossed, resting murder face quickly becoming active murder face, like Stiles just insulted him in the most heinous way possible. This dude is action-packed with issues. Stiles doesn’t really know what to say, given Derek’s completely unpredictable yet always alarmingly intense reaction to things. So he just sits there and meets his glare, the silence growing more awkward by the second.

“You’re welcome,” Stiles says finally, because he can only handle the torture so much, and it’s probably just what he should have said in the first place. He decides right then and there that he will always do whatever it takes to help Derek.

He’s smart enough not to tell him that though.

“Did the food help?” He asks, desperate to change the subject. “With the whole, mystical strength recovery thing, I mean? How are you feeling?”

“Better. Thank you.” That’s the second time Derek’s thanked him - technically the third. Derek has _actual_ manners. “The other stuff,” Derek continues, “the contact. That helped a lot. I’m healing much faster than I would have on my own.”

Stiles clears his throat, a different kind of awkwardness rising between them, making him blush, he hopes not too obviously. “Good, good. Glad that I can help.” God he sounds like such a _tool_. 

Derek isn’t making any move to leave, and there’s this look in his expression, not expectation really, and definitely not hope, but maybe something like it? Stiles swallows hard and looks down at his plate, concentrating very hard a small piece of ketchup-covered egg. “Do you…um, are you still…if you need more help…my dad won’t be home until tonight, so you can stay,” he finishes lamely, chickening out.

 _Come back to bed_ , is what he wants to say. He looks back up at Derek.

“Okay,” Derek says evenly, holding his gaze. “I could use more rest.”

**~*~**

Derek gets into bed first again, this time with his back towards the wall. Stiles lies on his side facing away from him, letting Derek pull him in close to his warm, broad chest. He circles his arm around his waist, fingers brushing the line of hair below his navel. Stiles closes his eyes and focuses very, very hard on breathing evenly.

Derek doesn’t seem to be taking the same care that Stiles had about keeping some distance between them below the waist, because his hips are pressed in snug behind Stiles’, cradling his ass, those stupid muscular thighs tucked neatly against the back of his. “Is this okay,” he mumbles, voice low and sleepy, lips ghosting across the back of his neck.

 _This is everything_ , Stiles wants to say. “Yeah,” he manages to croak out, “yeah this is okay.”

**Author's Note:**

> I'm going to start taking prompts soon, so come say hi [on tumblr!](http://deleted-scenes.tumblr.com/)


End file.
